As India mourns one of its deadliest aviation disasters in recent memory, a new wave of anguish is emerging—not just from the loss, but from what was left behind.
At least 270 lives were lost when a London-bound Air India Boeing 787 Dreamliner crashed moments after takeoff from Ahmedabad last Thursday. The aircraft, carrying 242 passengers, slammed into a residential building near a medical college hostel, claiming not only nearly all lives on board but also killing 29 people on the ground. The sole survivor, 40-year-old British national Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, is left piecing together both his memory and his life from the wreckage.
But even as investigations commence and tributes pour in from world leaders, a more visceral crisis is playing out in the Civil Hospital’s postmortem ward: grieving families begging for the return of whole bodies—what remains of their loved ones reduced to fragmented remains zipped in body bags.
Outside the 1,200-bed Civil Hospital, the heartache is palpable. Temporary morgues now house rows of body bags, many containing only dismembered or charred parts, sparking fury among families desperate to conduct final rites with dignity and completeness.
A father wailed on Saturday, pleading with officials to recover every last piece of his son. “Please give me all of him,” he sobbed. But in many cases, such closure may never come.
“Two heads were found in the same body bag,” a senior hospital official revealed grimly. “This forced us to restart DNA identification from scratch. It’s a painstaking process that can take up to 72 hours per sample.”
For many, that timeline is unbearable. Cultural and religious rites—particularly in Hindu and Muslim communities—emphasize the sanctity of the human form and the necessity of a full-body burial or cremation. The inability to perform these rites has left families not just grieving, but spiritually stranded.
Survivor Vishwash Kumar Ramesh, seated in 11A, miraculously escaped death while his older brother Ajay Kumar Ramesh, 45, perished. Recounting the horror to Hindustan Times, he said, “Thirty seconds after takeoff, there was a loud bang, and the plane nosedived. I blacked out. When I came to, there were bodies all around. I just ran.”
The trauma is something he’ll carry forever. Authorities later confirmed Vishwash’s injuries to his chest, foot, and eye, describing his survival as “extraordinary.”
As forensic teams scramble to conduct DNA tests on dozens of victims, public frustration has turned toward India’s aviation oversight. The Directorate General of Civil Aviation (DGCA) has ordered emergency inspections of all Air India Boeing 787-8 and 787-9 aircraft equipped with GEnx engines.
Investigations are focusing on takeoff performance, engine electronic control units, and fuel systems. Critics say the checks are long overdue.
“This crash has exposed the cracks not just in fuselage but in safety protocols,” said one aviation analyst.
The world has reacted with grief and solidarity. French President Emmanuel Macron offered “heartfelt thoughts to the victims’ loved ones,” while Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni expressed “full solidarity with the Indian people in this time of great sorrow.”
But for many families, words are cold comfort.
“They Deserve a Proper Goodbye”
At the heart of the unfolding tragedy is a simple human plea: to say goodbye.
“My daughter was my everything,” one mother whispered, clutching her child’s photo. “They gave me only a part of her. How do I light the pyre with that?”
The situation has highlighted a glaring gap between modern disaster response and ancient traditions—between forensic science and faith.
As India processes the scale of the catastrophe, one truth resonates louder than the roar of engines or the silence of official statements: grief demands more than answers—it demands dignity.
And right now, families aren’t just asking for accountability. They are begging for the chance to bury their dead whole.
PIONEER NEWS 